


How Ever Do You Need Me

by SydniDawn



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Autism Spectrum, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Mr. Chandler is horrible, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydniDawn/pseuds/SydniDawn
Summary: It takes is one random dinner to remind Chandler what's important to her. Turns out, she needs Mac as much as Mac might need her.





	How Ever Do You Need Me

“I heard from Amelia today.”

 

Heather hadn’t intended to be home for more than five minutes. The Chandler mansion, while impressive in its own right,  had only ever felt like a prison for as long as she could remember. With Mac by her side, the goal had been stealth; there was a sweet spot of time when her mother was not quite coherent and her father was unavailable that she could appear and disappear without worry or care. All she really needed was a textbook and a pair of clean panties, maybe her new heels. How fucking hard could that be?

 

Heather and Heather made it up all of  five stairs before her father caught them, and insisted they both stay for dinner.

 

The group of four had been eating in relative silence until Molly Chandler had spoken.

 

“I don’t care.” Bruce Chandler was never one to colour statements with tact.

 

“You should.” Molly swirled her glass around, the liquid inside swishing dangerously. “Amelia says your son is doing very well in school.”

 

“He is?” Heather smiled at the mention of her brother.

 

Noah was  a byproduct of their father’s first marriage. He was nine years older, living quietly in New York City with his mother. They didn’t talk often, usually through covert letters sent to the McNamara’s, or phone calls while their dad was away on business, but they loved each other.

 

“He’ll be graduating next month.”

 

“That’s  _ very _ . Can we go?” Heather’s voice rose in excitement. “I haven’t seen him in forever.”

 

“No.”

 

Mr. Chandler had a way of wielding a single word like the sharpest of swords.

“If he wanted my support, he shouldn’t have fucked around these last few years.” Bruce cut his food loudly, utensils scraping across the plate. “That boy has shown he doesn’t have enough sense to make it in the culinary arts. Why should we indulge him, when we all know he will be back wasting his life away by years end?”

 

The women around him grew silent.

 

“So Heather…” Both girls turned to Molly, but she was looking at Mac, “How are things?” 

 

“Fine.”  Heather awkwardly shifted her weight in her seat. “Dad's getting married again.”

 

Heather frowned. There were some days she was grateful Mac missed some of the more complex cues. Molly was, despite her narcotic haze, often able to say the right things, but her tone was one of disinterest.

 

The corner of Chandler’s mouth quirked upwards, “This one's only what, ten years older than us?”

 

Mac giggled at her best friend, and Chandler felt warmth bubble up in her gut.

 

“And what about with you? How is school going?” Her mother’s words were drawn out. Heather knew that meant she’d had a late afternoon quaalude. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

 

A glass banged down onto the table, causing both Heathers to jump.

 

“Molly, they’re too young to be thinking about boys.” Bruce couldn’t help but mutter, “Though, that doesn't stop Heather from slutting around.”

 

Chandler's eyes turned downcast.  Despite the quiet tone, the whole table heard him loud and clear.

 

His voice was hard as he spoke again, “You didn't answer the question. Any boyfriends?”

 

“No sir,” Mac stuttered.

 

“What about alcohol, do you drink?”

 

Heather glanced over to Chandler in confusion. The redhead wouldn't look at her directly, not with her father watching. Instead, with her index and middle side by side, she brought them to her thumb sharply.

 

That was her answer. 

 

“No, I don't.”

 

“Isn’t that something.” He turned his focus to his daughter, “Your friend here has no boyfriend, and doesn't drink booze… and I got stuck with you.”

 

This time, Chandler shut her eyes, the impact of the comment showing as she bit the inside of her cheek.

 

Bruce lifted his chin, “You'll notice I'm drinking tequila.”

 

Of course they'd noticed. Bruce Chandler was an angry drunk no matter what, but he was quiet on other liquors. Tequila took his usual pensive air, and gave it voice.

 

“I had planned on drinking my North Port, but  _ for some reason _ , I couldn't find it.”

 

Fucking.

 

Hell.

 

Kurt and Ram were dumb as shit on a good day, assuming “your mom” jokes and pranks were hilarious, rather than a spotlight on the one brain cell shared between them. Normally, Chandler didn't care about anything they said unless it involved their next party,. That was until she’d caught them plotting a new prank in the back staircase. 

 

The plan had been simple enough; to dump a bucket of water on Heather Duke during her usual post-lunch trip to the bathroom. They'd gotten as far in their planning as sneaking in, and locking all the doors but one when Heather had reacted preemptively. She'd taken an extended lunch, snagging the bottle of whiskey from her father's study, before rushing back to school. Heather made sure her eyelashes fluttered just right, and her voice lifted in a way that made the boys weak before she'd even laid out the proposition.

 

“Don't fuck with Heather.” She had forced herself not to roll her eyes at their twin looks of confusion, “ _ Duke _ .”

 

They’d stuttered, of course. Awkwardly balked at the accusation laced into her liquid velvet words.

 

Heather held up a hand, effectively stopping their words. “I know about your little bucket joke.”

 

She was met with matching frowns.

 

“I'm here to offer you a proposition: you leave Heather Duke -and McNamara for that matter- alone, and in return, I give you this.”

 

She had pulled the new bottle out from behind her back, smirking in a mixture of relief and satisfaction at their wide eyes and drooling mouths.

 

“Play the prank on Martha Dumptruck, if you are feeling that juvenile; I don't give a shit. Just don't go near the Heathers.”

 

She found out later, they'd gone home, and gotten wasted.

 

One bottle was nothing if it kept the idiots away from Duke; her father had been out of town, and she could easily replace it before he returned, thanks to her fake ID.

 

Except she'd forgotten.

 

“You finished that bottle, didn't you?” Heather kept her voice even.

 

“I did.” Bruce’s voice was perfectly matched to his daughter’s; even, with a long-perfected control, “Then I bought a new one right before my trip.”

 

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. How the fuck was she going to get out of this?

 

“I knocked it onto the floor.” She took a steadying breathing, “I ran out of paper, and needed to finish an assignment, so I went into your study for another couple sheets. I didn't see the bottle until it hit the floor.”

 

She chanced a glance at him, taking note of how he lifted his chin, looking down at her, as always.

 

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

 

“You knocked it on the floor?” Bruce leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table, and steepling his fingers. “My $320 bottle of whiskey.”

 

Heather saw Mac wince in her peripheral vision.

 

“It was an accident. I knocked it over, it broke, and then I cleaned it up-”

 

He cut her off, “How?”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“* _ How _ * did you clean it up?” 

 

“I picked up the-”

 

“No.” The second interruption came so much louder than the first. “ _ Show me _ how you did it.”

 

He swiped his forearm through the air, the back of his hand connected with the tumbler, and knocking it off the table. Time seemed to move slowly, one second dragging into the next, the falling glass no more than a feather drifting down to the ground, until finally the time came speeding back. The glass shattered as it hit the ground.

 

Each woman reacted differently. Molly shut her eyes, slowly, without any other outward response. Heather held her breath, head ringing in trepidation long before the sound reverberated in her ears. Mac was a different matter. The tumbler shattering was loud in her ears, as if the glass shards themselves were digging through her eardrums. The Chandler dining room was too bright as it was, and Mr. Chandler spoke too loudly and too harshly; his words cut into her as much as they cut into Heather. But then the glass, something so small, but it was too much. Mac could feel her body start to rock slowly, her hands flapping up and down at a calming speed.

 

Oh no.

 

“Heddie…” Chandler spoke quietly.

 

Heather stood up, ready to go to her friend, when her father’s words chilled her bones.

 

“Clean it up.”

 

Heather couldn’t take her eyes off Mac. “Dad…”

 

Bruce didn’t waver. “Show me how you cleaned my study.”

 

There was no opportunity for negotiation in his eyes, only cold fire. Heather crouched down, carefully stacking the pieces of glass beside her, pulling a napkin from beside her plate, and mopping up the spill. There was an expeditious final glance, ensuring the mess was sufficiently tidied, before she stood, ready to continue her journey to Mac, until her father's hand wrapped around her elbow, holding her firmly in place.

 

“Do you smell that?”

 

Her eyes slipped to Mac's, and she felt his fingers tighten around her.

 

“Smell…” Tequila hit her nose with a fierceness. “Oh.”

 

“Oh indeed. The smell of alcohol -whiskey especially- lasts a while.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, “And given the lazy ass way you clean…”

 

“Dad.”

 

“Where. Is. My. BOTTLE?!”

 

His sentence ended with a shout.

 

“I don't-...” The grip tightened again, and she winced. “Daddy, your hurting me.”

 

“It is amazing the lack of respect I get in this house.”

 

He turned his body to look at his daughter, eyes narrowing in thought.

 

“What should I do to rectify this problem?” Their eyes, the exact same eyes, stared at each other.  “Heather, I think it's time for you to leave.”

 

There was no movement, no chair scraping, and no words echoing through the air. Bruce and Heather turned, glancing at the petite blonde on the far side of the table. Mac hasn't stopped her movements; her torso rocking back and forth, though more slowly than before. There was a small frown gracing her lips, as her hands flapped at their usual tempo.

 

“I SAID it's time for you to leave.”

 

There was no outward change.

 

Bruce’s voice raised with unrestrained temper, “Heather McNamara, what the fuck is wrong-”

 

“She can't help it!” Heather was laser focused on Mac, throat tightening as the blonde's distress grew.

 

“Make her stop, or I will.”

 

Heather was around the table as soon as he released her arm. She didn't hinder Heather's actions, instead standing beside her, and running her fingers through the blonde strands.

 

“Heather, I'm right here.”

 

If it weren't for the hand in her hair, Chandler might not have noticed Mac nodding.

 

“Why do you always bring your freak friend over?” Molly took a sip of her gimlet, “The oriental one is a bit more… normal, isn’t she?”

 

Heather’s reply was razor sharp. “Duke is  _ Korean _ , Mother. And Heather isn’t a freak, not at all.”

 

“Then what do you call that?” There was a vague gesture towards Mac's flapping hands.

 

“She's overwhelmed.”

 

“She's an imbecile.” Bruce’s voice jumped in annoyance. “And she still hasn't stopped.”

 

“It takes more than fifteen seconds, Jesus fuck!”

 

Colour drained from Chandler's face immediately.

 

There was graveyard silence, every sound choked from the air in an instant. Her father's features darkened, a storm of rage and danger was blowing in, preparing to destroy everything in its path.

 

“I'm sorry!” Heather gasped.

 

“What did you just say?” The bass crawled into his voice with each over enunciation.

 

Chandler moved quickly, taking her hand away from Heather's hair, and turning to face her dad, using her body to block Mac as effectively as she could.

 

Chandler could feel her body shake, but fought through the reaction. “I didn't mean it, I  _ swear _ .”

 

His sentence slowed, “I want you to repeat that disrespectful FILTH that just came out of your mouth!”

 

Bruce didn't wait for any answer. Her arm was back in his hand, and he dragged her away from the table in seconds.

 

“I’m  _ sorry _ , Dad!”

 

“You are sure as shit going to be after I wash your mouth out with soap.” 

 

Fucking hell. 

 

That wasn't the worst punishment he'd ever given her, but it was the most disgusting. The taste of soap lasted long after the offending object was gone, made only worse if she made the mistake of swallowing suds. The last time, her stomach had been upset for days, leaving Heather in a deeper state of regret, even after her father had forgotten about the act.

 

Heather dug in her heels just a bit more. “Please, no. Not again.”

 

She glanced over her shoulder, checking on Mac as inconspicuously as she could.

 

Heather was still rocking, but her focus was on the commotion. She wouldn't dare look at Mr. Chandler directly, but the tears welling up in her eyes were enough confirmation to Chandler that she wasn't going to calm down anytime soon.

 

“You’re right, Heather.” His meaty hand tightened, lifting her higher off the ground, forcing her to stand on her toes. “I've been using soap for years, and you're still as vile as ever. Maybe drain cleaner would change your tune.”

 

Heather gasped. He wouldn't…

 

The look was back in his eyes, the one that meant he was deathly -and apparently  _ deadly _ \- serious.

 

Heather’s voice caught in her throat, “No.”

 

Heather leaned her full body weight back, twisting her arm in his grip, and digging her heels in as best she could. “Drain cleaner”, he’d said. That wasn't fucking soap. Drain cleaner was a mixture of chemicals, all of which would scrape down her throat, until she choked on her last breath.

 

He was going to kill her.

 

“Daddy, please. I will be good, just don't-”

 

He cut her off with a slap, right cheek stinging where his hand connected.

 

“You’ve never been  _ good _ up until this point.”

 

A chair creaked behind her, and Heather turned her head. Mac was rocking hard enough to make noise, hands flapping in a dizzying display of speed. What really tore at her wasn't her father and the impending threat on her life, it was the tears; silent, and heavy cascading down Heather's cheeks.

 

She had really fucked up this time. Mac should never have had to see this.

 

“Fucking MOVE!” Bruce yanked on her arm again.

 

Heather felt her body snap backwards, her head turning and eyes leaving Mac just a moment too late. Somehow her feet stayed planted, though.

 

There was nothing for a moment as her ankle rolled, before blistering white agony took over. The pain was such a horrifying surprise that Chandler couldn't stop her response: she screamed.

 

“Shut the FUCK UP, HEATHER!!”

 

Everything was chaotic. Heather let her body crumple to the floor, tears welling up, but never falling from her eyes. Her ankle  _ fucking  _ hurt, but that wasn't her concern.

 

Mac had yelped when she had screamed and whimpered when her father shouted. And now, Mac  sat unmoving, eyes shut tight, and hands firmly clasped over her ears.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with her?!”

 

“I need to get her out of here; it's too loud for her.” Tears stung as they tracked down Chandler’s cheeks.

 

He didn't look convinced; if anything, he seemed more irritated. He dragged her back onto her feet, lips curling into the ugliest of sneers as he held her weight up despite her swelling ankle.

 

“It isn't an act or me trying to get out of anything.” She kept direct eye contact. Anything less would make him doubt her word. “Heather won't stop until she feels calm, and I'm the only one who can get her home properly.”

 

Chandler  was almost surprised when he released her, but she didn't let the feeling last.

 

“Heather, I am going to take you home.” Chandler’s voice was soft.

 

Normally, she was specific. She would detail what actions she was taking, making sure Mac wasn't surprised even if she couldn't respond. But normally her dad wasn't watching her like a hawk. Heather stepped towards Mac, gathering her up in her arms, before just walking out of the house.

 

She didn't sigh in relief until they make it to the Porsche without being stopped.“Heather, I'm going to open the door, help you sit in the passenger seat, then close the door, okay?”

 

Getting her into the car was a struggle. Mac was stiff, her body only moving mechanically with Heather's gentle maneuvering while her mind tried to recover. Chandler opened the passenger door wide, one hand behind Heather's head to guide her into the seat. She moved the other hand behind her knees as she sat, turning Mac until she was facing the dashboard.

 

“I'm going to leave you for a moment, okay? Just so I can get in the driver's seat. Everything will be okay.”

 

After a quick glance, she shut the door. She made her way around the car at a slower pace than she would've liked. Heather knew her ankle was a mess; the way it throbbed continuously, as well as what little weight she could place on it, she would be lucky if she didn't end up in a cast. She sat down hard in the driver’s seat, gingerly taking off her heels, and tossing them in the back, before closing the door.

 

“I'm going to reach across you, and buckle you up. Let me know if it's too tight on you.”

 

It took her less time than she was comfortable with to reach across her best friends lithe body, and pull the seat belt to close around her. Over a decade of friendship meant over a decade of easing Heather out of shutdowns and meltdowns. 

 

Heather didn't even bother with her own, starting the car, and peeling out of her driveway without a second thought. It was only as she rounded the corner, that she blindly reached to fasten herself in.

 

“Heather?” She glanced over to Mac.

 

The blonde was curled in on herself, hands still tight over her ears. Chandler's grip tightened on the steering wheel with her left hand, the right reaching back into her own hair. Her red scrunchie came out with little resistance andher red curls bounced into her face. With a cursory glance at the road, she turned, running the soft scrunchie fabric across the back of Mac's hand, before sliding it between her fingers and the side of her head. As the delicate fingers start stroking the fabric rhythmically, Chandler nodded.

 

“Seven minutes to Heather's, and fifteen to come out of a shutdown.” Her words were whispered to the air.

 

She slowed down, turning off the main road and onto a side street, planning out the longest route to the McNamara mansion. Heather loved being in the car, often begging Chandler to take the long way home -it never took much; one pout, and she was bending to Heather's will-, or taking a weekend road trip with Duke reading in the back. Car rides were soothing, as was her scrunchie. She only hoped that was enough to help Mac.

 

They sat in silence for quite a while, minutes stretching by as Chandler kept and uncharacteristically even speed, until she broke the silence again.

 

“Heddie, we're almost home.”

 

Mac had removed her hands from her ears, but continued to sway back and forth, rhythmically rolling her fingers over the red scrunchie in her hand. This overload was a bad one; more often than not, if she wasn't in a safe space, the car ride home would help soothe her, but not today. Today, it seemed Mac was trapped in her shutdown, with no escape.

 

“Heddie, you're safe, alright? You’ll be okay.”

 

She could hear the faintest sound, a humming coming from the other girl as she wove through the streets to the McNamara mansion. Heather glanced once at her friend, before listening harder. The tune was broken, on the lower end of Mac’s vocal range, but soon enough, she heard it.

 

“You really ARE obsessed with that song, aren't you?” Heather chuckled despite herself.

 

She waited until Mac circled back around to the first verse -and she always did- before clearing her throat, and joining in.

 

Chandler started singing, a little lower than the song itself. “Back to life, back to reality. Back to the here and now, yeah.”

 

This was new for her. She'd never even considered singing to any kind of audience, and while Heather was not just anyone, Chandler couldn't tell if her voice was helping or hindering.

 

God, this was a mess. She never should've put Mac in that position.

 

“Show me how, decide what you want from me. Tell me, maybe, I could be there for you…”

*

She ended up driving past the McNamara's twice before Mac came back into her awareness. Heather was quiet, rubbing her eyes tiredly as her body unconsciously shifted toward Chandler.

 

“You sleepy?” She watched Mac carefully.

 

Mac raised her hand, and making a small, repeated knocking motion.

 

‘ _ Yes.’ _

 

“I’m going to get out, walk around the car, and then get you, okay?”

 

Mac made an ‘o’ with her hand, then slid her thumb between the base of her second and third fingers.

 

‘ _ Okay. _ ’

 

Not bothering with her heels, Heather opened the door, and stepped out, stumbling as her left foot was stressed by her weight. She made sure the door was shut before she started cussing, using the car as a crutch as she hobbled to the other side. She took a slow breath before opening the door.

 

“Heather, can you unbuckle your seatbelt, or do you want me to do it?”

 

It took a second, but Mac reached over, and hit the button. When she was free, Chandler spoke again.

 

“I’m going to help you out of the car, and inside.” Heather rubbed a thumb over Mac’s knee, “If it gets too much, tell me, alright?”

 

Another signed “okay” had her moving. Getting Mac inside the mansion was a bit easier than getting her out of her own. Mac was sluggish, but she was out of her shutdown.

 

The biggest hindrance was her ankle. With Mac clinging onto her, it became that much harder to put all her weight on one leg.

 

Chandler gestured to the staircase, “Can you go sit on the stairs for me? I want to grab a couple things in the kitchen.”

 

She signed okay again, before closing all her fingers but her pinky on her left hand, and making the letter ‘H’ with her index and middle finger right next to each other moving in a circle around the pinky. Chandler's name sign; H and Cherry, for her red hair, her favourite fruit, and the cherry red scrunchie she'd worn since her first day of kindergarten when she found a best friend. Chandler was cherry, and Mac was sunshine. Always.

 

Chandler smiled at her, before limping off. It felt like hours before she reached the kitchen, hopping rather ungracefully as she passed through the library, upstairs bar, and living room before reaching her target.

 

She went for a glass of water first, for Mac, and the first aid kit under the sink next. Mr. McNamara was a good cook, but a fucking DISASTER in the kitchen, always cutting or burning himself on one thing or another, and so the neon kit stayed fully stocked next to the dish soap and garbage can. It was only as she started for the door that the redhead turned, making her way to the freezer for frozen peas, before heading back to the foyer.

* * *

Heather was being watched. Sitting down to change, she tugged her knee-highs off first, wincing at the purple bruise decorating the outside of her swollen ankle, then shed herself of everything except her panties shortly after. She kept exactly one pair of pyjamas at Heather's; a mismatched set consisting of satin red t-shirt, with red and black plaid shorts, both of which were made of fabric Mac found soothing.

 

Mac kept a careful eye on her, flitting between her face, and her ankle, briefly overseeing the delicate and practiced way Chandler wrapped the injury in an tensor bandage. Mac's eyes then stopped in between at her bare chest for a long while. When she met her gaze again, Chandler quirked an eyebrow, causing Mac to blush deeply, turning her focus back to the scrunchie playing in her hands.

 

“Do you need help getting changed?” Heather tugged the pyjamas on.

 

An index and middle finger close onto her thumb.

 

_ ‘No.’ _

 

Mac blindly tugged her clothes off, Chandler turned her attention to the room. She went through the checklist: curtains were closed, nightlight was on while the overhead light was off. With everything finished, she pulled at the blanket thrown over the armchair. Mac's autism diagnosis came on the back of her mom's cancer diagnosis, and it shook the whole family. Before she died, Annie McNamara had made her daughter a weighted quilt, large enough to cover the entirety of her king size bed, and hang on the floor on all sides. Years after she was gone, Heather confessed it was the only thing that got her through her mom's death.

 

The blanket, and Chandler, of course.

 

Chandler limped over to her side of the bed -the protective spot closest to the door-, and sat down on the edge. It was just as her fingers curl around the frozen peas sitting on the nightstand that she felt Mac curl around her, cuddling into her back heavily.

 

“You couldn't wait the ten fucking seconds until I got comfortable, huh?” There was no bite in Heather’s tone; there never was when it was just the two of them.

 

Mac shook her head against Chandler's back.

 

Blue eyes rolled in amusement.

 

“Scoot back; I want to lie down.”

 

It was less of a scoot and more of a tug as Mac helped Chandler move to lie on the centre of the bed. The blonde was well-versed in the gymnastics of cuddling Heather, fluffing the mountain of pillows to mould around Chandler’s head and upper back, even going so far as to gently place the frozen peas along the side of her ankle, before diving back into place; her place. Laying between Chandler’s legs, she burrowed her face into the warm chest, shuddering happily as Chandler’s arms wrapped around her back.

 

“You good?”

 

Mac shifted in her arms, taking one of Chandler’s arms off her back, holding it up, and creating a sign between the two of them. She held up her index and middle finger in the shape of a ‘v’, lined them up against Heather’s, moved their fingertips apart for a moment, then put them back together.

 

_ ‘Very’ _

 

Chandler shook her head in amusement, fighting off a grin as Heather intertwined their fingers, and laid them at her side. She pulled the blanket up, securing the weighted fabric across Mac’s shoulders, before her hand slid back down to rub circles over Mac’s back.

 

They lay in silence for a while, Mac’s fingers delicately playing with the red scrunchie, though in a much more relaxed pattern.

 

“Thea?”

 

Chandler smiled softly at her. Thea was her parents’ way of nodding at the one ancestor in her notably Irish lineage who was of Greek heritage. When Mac had learned of her name -though knowledge of the origin didn't come until years later- she loved the name, and how it sounded. And all four letters were found in their shared first name; Mac thought it was the perfect nickname for her best friend. Chandler had agreed immediately. Over time, the name only came out during private moments between just them. Heather fucking Chandler could NOT be seen to look like a fucking pillowcase, and certainly not because of her middle name. So Thea remained private, in the same way Chandler's nickname for Heather did, and they continued to float above it all.

 

“Are you thirsty?”

 

Mac nodded against her chest. Chandler reached over to the nightstand, and grabbed the glass, holding it back until Mac lifted her head to drink. Only when she’s satisfied -and after she herself snuck in a sip- does Chandler replace the glass.

 

Mac tried again, “ _Thea_ , he…”

 

“Shh, it's okay. You're safe.”

 

Heather put both hands on Chandler’s chest, pushing against it until she could look her best friend in the eye. It was usually the one thing they never fucking talked about; how Mr. Chandler hurt her. Mac had known, of course, ever since the first time. Heather had been nine years old when she first walked for over an hour from her house to the McNamara’s, cheek burning bright with the sting of the slap as well as the cold from the early January weather. She always walked when she was younger, only daring to call if the walk would have been too painful. Mac was well-versed in the after-effects, the only person, in fact, who ever got to see a look of defeat trace over Heather Chandler’s features. But this time, Mac had witnessed exactly how the look got there.

 

“But YOU…” Heather leaned more, ignoring how Chandler grunted at all the weight being placed on her chest. “You can’t go back there.”

 

The famous Heather Chandler eyebrow quirk was back. “I have a plan, don't worry.”

 

Mac searches her face carefully, all worry and big eyes.

 

Chandler sighed, “I have been saving up to replace the catalytic converter in my car. I'll just dip into that to replace the stupid bottle.”

 

“But what about your car?”

 

“My car will be fine; you can drive with a plugged converter.”

 

The corner of Mac’s mouth tugged up. Chandler’s knowledge of cars was one of the more amusing parts of her personality. She knew cars backwards and forwards, but never shared that information with anyone; instead exploiting stupid fucking men who thought she was an airhead whenever she got the chance. The only time Chandler and Duke didn’t fight was when Chandler was toying with an arrogant boy who thought they knew anything about cars.

 

“I still don't think you should go home, Thea.” Mac laid down again, “He was  _ so _ angry, and scary…”

 

Chandler could feel her start to shake, and pulled her closer. Focusing on Mac, and on her feelings meant she didn't have to focus on her own; on how fucking scared she had been. Her dad had always been dangerous, but never before had he been unwavering in a decision to…

 

He had almost killed her.

 

Chandler spoke silently. “Fuck.” 

 

She shifted, leaning down to place her lips hard against Mac’s, letting the radiating heat that was her best friend burn away all thoughts of death and fear, before pulling back.

 

“I’m not going anywhere. I'll stay until you get sick of me.”

 

Mac tightened her hold on Chandler,  fingers dipping under her shirt to draw patterns on the freckled skin. Finger roam the curves, losing herself in the sensation of soft skin and Heather’s perfume, until she feels another kiss on her forehead. She melts, finally letting her body relax, and sleep take her over.

 

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am planning a Modern AU series, making this a prequel of sorts. But it can also work as a standalone fic!


End file.
